Kevin woke with a splitting headache, every muscle screaming like someone had beaten him with a bat. His ribs were bruised, his legs scraped raw from mud and jagged roots. He tasted blood in his mouth, bitter and metallic.
"Goddammit… I fucking hate this," he muttered, sitting up. He had survived his first night — barely — but the swamp outside the Box was still alive with predators, and he had nothing but his ripped clothes and a shitty-ass branch.
The Box panel glowed in front of him. New tasks:
Construct a shelter for night survival.
Gather edible plants or insects.
Explore the immediate area for useful materials.
Kevin groaned. "Are you fucking kidding me? After last night you want me to build something?!"
But the Box didn't give a shit. Survival was the only rule. Fail, and you die. One life. Only one.
Kevin started with plants. He had zero knowledge of edible flora, so he sampled carefully, testing tiny bits at a time. Some made his stomach cramp. Some almost burned his throat. He spat, gagged, and wiped his mouth with his filthy sleeve.
"Fuck… okay… don't die. Don't fucking die," he muttered.
Next, he scavenged debris — broken branches, rusty metal scraps, fallen stones. He had to make some kind of weapon. Last night had shown him that a stick doesn't cut it.
He finally wedged a jagged piece of metal into a branch — crude, but it would at least let him poke and slash without being ripped apart instantly.
"Not a sword, not a knife, but better than my stupid fucking hands," he muttered.
Kevin found a hollowed tree trunk. With mud, sticks, and vines, he fashioned a rudimentary lean-to.
It wasn't safe. Not at all. But it would at least keep him slightly above the swamp floor and away from crawling things.
"This is… shit. But it's my shit," he said grimly, brushing mud from his hair.
While exploring the swamp for more food, Kevin saw movement — a medium-sized predator, claws slick, teeth bared. It stalked him.
"Fuck… no, no, no!"
He threw his jagged branch. The monster swatted it aside like a toothpick. Kevin ran, rolling over roots, slamming into mud, heart pounding. The thing pursued him.
Kevin ducked behind a rock, catching his breath. He had an idea. A pitfall trap. Not much, but enough to slow it down. He dug with his hands, barely covering the hole with leaves.
The predator lunged — fell in. It roared, clawing itself out, but Kevin ran.
"Holy fuck! Okay, maybe I can… maybe I can do this."
Hours later, Kevin spotted a smaller vermin, aggressive and scuttling. It wasn't a monster — more like giant swamp rat — but enough to give him practice.
He swung his makeshift spear. It scratched him — pain shot through his arm — but he drove it into the creature's chest. It squealed, kicked, and died.
Kevin collapsed to his knees, panting, hands shaking. Blood and sweat ran down his face.
"Fuuuuuuck… I killed something. Holy shit. I actually killed something."
Kevin returned to his lean-to. The swamp grew dark. Fog thickened. Sounds of monsters echoed in the distance. He had survived the day — barely — and learned some brutal truths:
Food is rare. Eating something wrong could kill you.
Weapons matter. Improvised tools are survival.
Traps save lives. Thinking ahead is everything.
The Box panel flickered green:
"Daily tasks complete: survival minimal. Reward: single ration of purified water. Prepare for nightfall survival."
Kevin groaned. "Oh, fuck… not another fucking night. Goddammit, I'm too young for this shit."
But there was no choice. Survival didn't wait for age, comfort, or fear.
Kevin Ashford, F20- human, 16 years old, barely a kid, was beginning to understand one thing: this world doesn't give a flying fuck about you surviving — you have to fight, bleed, and improvise every second of every goddamn day.
And tonight… he would have to do it all again.